


End of 2016 Log

by stephanericher



Series: Drabbles [21]
Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball, Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: F/M, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-31
Updated: 2016-12-31
Packaged: 2018-09-19 02:08:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9413063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stephanericher/pseuds/stephanericher
Summary: Works published on tumblr from 10/16 thru 12/16





	

1\. Diaphanous (Mibuchi Reo) for mellowmaven

Mibuchi likes to pretend he’s the perfect student, always diligent and attentive. And for the most part he is; for the most part he’s not doodling in the margins of his notebook or falling asleep or failing to sit still. But sometimes Nebuya will catch movement out of the corner of his eye, of Mibuchi in the second-row window seat with his face turned outside.

Today there’s a butterfly, fluttering its diaphanous wings almost hesitantly as it perches on the sill. How very like Mibuchi, always preoccupied with small things, details he could so easily crush between his fingers or spear with one nail. The butterfly’s wingspan is probably no longer than Mibuchi’s thumb, and yet. He stares.

And then Nebuya blinks, and the butterfly’s taken off; Mibuchi’s carefully rearranging himself as if he’d been turned toward the front the whole time and it’s as if it had never happened.

* * *

 

2\. Stygian (Hayakawa Mitsuhiro) for mellowmaven

The end of last season had been nothing but darkness, the knowledge that they’d been so close and blown it, the things that Kasamatsu (Hayakawa’s favorite upperclassman because he was just so damn steady even when he was fired up) had taken to heart so much that he’d seemed to be falling down to a place he couldn’t return from, the somber mood over the whole locker room. Kobori had ruffled his hair and told him to try and keep it together for the seniors, and he ahd tried, but it was hard not to be disheartened by the way they’d looked.

And here they are this year, barely pushed out of the final they wouldn’t have been able to win anyway because their ace is playing on a bad leg and the rest of them can barely hold off Seirin’s luck let alone anything else—and yet the future seems a whole lot brighter. This year they’re not so much caught up in what ifs as they are with what did happen, with why they lost now and why they won’t lose next time. This time, Nakamura squeezes Hayakawa’s hand as he does bawl because it feels damn right to cry after all they’ve been through, and then Kobori’s hugging them both and telling them how great they’re going to do next year and even if it wasn’t Kobori Hayakawa would totally believe it.

Because they are. This year was leaps and bounds better than last year; next year’s going to be even better than that because they’ll all be even better than that, all finally free from the stygian cling pulling them under.

* * *

 

3\. Refulgent (Hara Kazuya) for mellowmaven

“Hara. Oi.”

Hara makes a muffled sound, involuntarily; he blinks and through the gauzy pink of his bangs the refulgent screen of his monitor is practically screaming. He shuts his eyes again.

“You didn’t fall asleep, did you?”

Hara’s pretty sure he left the headset on mute, and it’s hard to fumble around in the darkness of his screwed-shut eyelids and find the button, but eventually he does.

“Hara? Are you even still there?”

“Yes,” Hara says and sighs.

“You were asleep,” says Hanamiya, and if they were in the same room Hara would be rolling his eyes (if they were in the same room he wouldn’t have fallen asleep anyway because he’d be poking Hanamiya with the controller or something—gaming by himself is exponentially less interesting, even with Hanamiya on the other end of the headest).

Hara doesn’t bother to deny it (at least he won’t unless Hanamiya claims to somehow have heard him snoring because he doesn’t snore and even if he did the headset was on mute).

“Are we going to get this boss or what?” says Hanamiya.

Hara’s eyes have adjusted (mostly) to the screen; he can see his character pressed face against the wall, and honestly he’d like to be face down on the bed right now. But Hanamiya’s never going to let him live it down if he doesn’t, and if they beat this boss (and Hanamiya does most of the work) Hanamiya will be relatively happy and then Hara can shut off his headset and really go to sleep.

“Yeah. Give me a sec.”

“I’ve already given you—”

Hara pulls the headset off his ears. Like this, Hanamiya doesn’t know he’s not listening.

* * *

 

4\. Extirpation (Wakamatsu Kousuke) for mellowmaven

It’s been a long time since they’ve mopped the floor with an opponent like this. And okay, their opponent’s long since dropped out of the national rankings entirely, but that doesn’t make the feeling any less satisfying. If anything, it’s more satisfying because this is a team they should be flattening, a team that should want to win by the skin of its teeth, a team that’s really going to realize the bullshit of the phrase “the one who wins is going to be the one who wants it the most”.

It’s a pure win, pure strategy and execution, well-oiled cogs in a polished machine rolling tanks across the floor, quick passes and harsh dunks, well-timed drawn fouls and solid blocks. They don’t hold back; they just go. Sakurai mutters under his breath that it’s too easy and then throws up two straight perfect, arcing threes; Momoi draws and discards and redraws the plans as fast as Wakamatsu can memorize them and Aomine can ignore them (but of course Momoi’s already planned for that).

They sub in the second string in the third quarter; Wakamatsu watches from the bench with a water bottle between his teeth and a towel over his shoulders, legs outstretched. This is it; this is his team, the point guard barking out orders and the forwards clogging up the passing lanes, all five of them setting up the perfect trap and waiting for their exhausted foes to trip over the wires.

“Don’t get too cocky,” Aomine says next to him.

Wakamatsu elbows him, but keeps his voice in check. He’s ready to go back in if needed—but as it turns out he doesn’t have to.

* * *

 

5\. Extemporize (Mayuzumi Chihiro) for mellowmaven

People are stupid. Sometimes they’re too stupid to realize they’re stupid and they try to oh-so-cleverly ad-lib a speech or presentation in front of the class and then run out of words ten seconds in. It’s so typical and so stupid; and people say Rakuzan students are the cream of the crop. Maybe some of them are—but the ones who grip their notes aren’t much better (they’re just as boring, most of the time).

On the other hand, class is going to be boring anyway, and they won’t be tested on this material and this is a better time than most to space out and stare at the wall and think about light novels and basketball practice and how he really does have to clean his dorm room so it passes inspection this weekend (and Mayuzumi would really rather not). But even that’s more pleasant than stumbled words and forgotten facts about classical literature. Mayuzumi tries not to sigh. If he were the protagonist of a light novel he wouldn’t have to deal with this bullshit, or maybe he’d get assigned to work in a group with a very pretty girl. But he’s long since given up on that kind of fantasy; it’s just pointless.

But then again, it’s better than listening to this drivel.

* * *

 

6\. Somatic (Furuhashi Koujirou) for mellowmaven

Bodies are so breakable. An elbow here, a wrong fall there; tendons snap and bones crack and fracture. Thousands of years of evolution have lead them to this, of needing pads and helmets and seat belts just to make sure things of their own invention don’t smash them to pulp. Furuhashi might laugh, if it was funny—but it’s not. It’s just simple.

Get out there, break a body; he doesn’t even have to calculate the angle of max efficiency the way Hanamiya does (burning his brain cells, although perhaps he has too many of them in the first place). He can just throw a hand in someone’s face and smack the cartilage of their nose wrong, kick out his leg and mess up their knee. It’s funny how bodies are so weak, and yet they undo each other just like that. (Well, not funny. But like that.)

* * *

 

7\. Incubus (Sakurai Ryou) for mellowmaven

They always ask him who told him he wasn’t good enough; he always wants to say that’s not the fucking point. The one who told him he wasn’t good enough was the losing score, the missed basket, himself; not being good enough itself told him he wasn’t. It’s the truth, a tautology. And it’s always ringing in his ears; nothing short of perfect is close to good enough and he is never close to perfect—but to not try is to lose worse, and he’d rather (if given such a sadistic choice) fail when he takes his chances than not try at all and lose even more ground.

The fear of it weighs him down; the burden of not-good-enough, not-tall-enough, not-strong-enough, not-finessed-enough, presses against his shoulders like weights on the machine when he’s taken too many at once. And yet he runs, rolls his shoulders to lift it off even though he knows the relief is only temporary—he can shout that he’s good, that he’s better, all he wants. (It’s never loud enough for him to believe it himself.)

* * *

 

8\. Nostrum (Nakamura Shinya) for mellowmaven

Nakamura’s given up on finding some remedy, some instant miracle, some hypothetical cure-all for his woeful offensive skills. He can block and steal with the best of them but his shots don’t land where they should and half the time he’s jumping the gun and shooting too soon and the other half the shot clock’s run out or the opposition’s gotten in perfect position to deny him no matter what.

It’s nice to believe in some mystical fortune-teller changing things for him; it’s nice to fantasize about a deal with the devil (he’d give up most of his remaining eyesight; he’d give up his school performance—hell, he already has with the way basketball takes over his life during the season and the amount of extra time he puts in shooting the ball fruitlessly, alone on the court). It’s nice to believe, but it’s stupid. He is as he is; he is a defender, not an attacker. The skills he’s developed aren’t the most marketable, but they’re still skills. And he can’t waste his time dreaming when there’s reps left to do.

* * *

 

9\. Cooking Together (midomomo) for generation-of-peach

They have everything, finally. After last night’s attempt at cooking a casserole in a frying pan on the stovetop and the even worse failure of the night before that (a meat loaf with cooking wine instead of broth that had ended up burnt on the outside and raw on the inside beside that) they have every ingredient and instrument for tonight’s attempt. Takao had suggested that they should start small, “nearer their capabilities,” and Midorima supposes he’s got a point. At least he’d put it better than Aomine, who’d suggested that they try not burning water in a teakettle first (not that he’s even one to talk in the first place).

So they’re making rice and steamed vegetables; they do have a double-boiler and Midorima had double-checked that he’d put water in it. He’s trusting Momoi with the rice, and he’d seen her pouring water in. This time they won’t burn it to a crisp; he’s absolutely certain. And no, he’s not crumpling the takeout menu Aomine had given them as a joke (it hadn’t been a funny one) with any vindictiveness in his hands. He’s just getting rid of the waste as he goes along. That’s how you’re supposed to cook, isn’t it?

Momoi wipes her brow and flicks on both burners. “Ready?”

“Ready,” says Midorima.

Even if they fail (they won’t; they both have their lucky items and Taurus is in first place today) he’ll still get to watch her cook, tackle the stove with furrowed brow and inexhaustible spirit. Were it not for her, Midorima would have given up ages ago. He knows sunk costs when he sees them, and he’s fine paying for catered, nutritious meals. Momoi isn’t. And she won’t give up, even in circumstances like this, dragging him along whether he wants to be or not (but it’s easier to follow her lead, even if they never get anywhere).

The vegetables sit in the steamer as the water below (presumably) begins to heat. Momoi stares at the rice, as if willing the water to boil. 

*

The vegetables are soggy and falling apart; the rice is a porridge even when they let it sit for ten extra minutes. 

“Takeout?” Midorima says finally (they still have a few menus stuck on the refrigerator). 

Momoi is pouting, attempting to hide it, and when she peers up at Midorima from beneath her lashes his mouth turns to mush and he can’t say anything else. But she smiles and takes his hand, and, well. They’ll try again tomorrow.

* * *

 

10\. things you said at 1 am + things you said while we were driving + things you said that made me feel like shit + things you said at the kitchen table + things you said that I wish you hadn’t + things you said you’ll never forget + things you said with the tv on mute + things you said when we first met (kagahimu) for zekkenflash

“If I had an older brother I’d want him to be like you,” Taiga says, all of nine or ten years old and the missing teeth in the sides of his mouth are prominent because he’s grinning widely (they’ll all have grown back in a year later, straight because even his teeth are naturally perfect).

And Tatsuya embraces it at that moment, because what else does he feel for Taiga besides brotherly love? That’s the highest kind of love, being a family, and he has no siblings to compare this to but it’s got to feel like this, like they’re meant to be like this with him leading and Taiga following, grasping at his hand with juicebox-stained fingers.

*

The game’s on mute; the announcers are inane and their own commentary is always better.

“Oh, it’s Fisher with the steal,” Tatsuya says, as if he’s surprised. “And they’re back the other way, Fisher to Malone!”

Malone puts it home and the crowd of gold and purple roars in silence, punctuated only by Taiga slapping Tatsuya five.

“That’ll be us someday,” Taiga says, with the surety of someone who has another two feet to grow, whose potential is bottomless from inside of him like the opposite of a black hole, but in that moment Tatsuya absolutely believes him.

*

“Go to sleep,” Tatsuya says, half-laughing. “It’s what, one in the morning over there?”

“Doesn’t matter,” says Taiga, and he’s half-yawning and Tatsuya can picture him running his hand up the back of his neck and through his hair and he’s smiling even harder.

“Yeah, it does,” Tatsuya says.

“Fine,” Taiga says, whining halfway in jest. “Love you.”

The line’s dead; they’ve never told each other that in as few words; Tatsuya’s fingers curl around the smooth edges of his phone. His heart’s beating too loud and he’s trying not to dissect just how and how much Taiga means that, except his brain is going 500 miles an hour and he’s on his third cup of coffee and, well, shit.

*

“Why do you do this?” Taiga says.

His voice is low, trembling.

“Do what?” Tatsuya says, but he knows damn well; he’s just enough of a masochist to want to hear it straight from Taiga.

“Why do you make things out like it’s always my fault?”

Not a _not your fault_ , not a _why do you make me feel_ —because it’s Taiga, of course, because he always cuts to the chase, slices the knot right through. There are no words Tatsuya can hide behind. The coffee machine sputters behind Taiga’s head; outside the kitchen window something made of glass smashes on the sidewalk. He could walk out; he could deny; he could divert the conversation. Taiga deserves better than that (Taiga deserves better than him).

“Because it’s easier,” Tatsuya says, quietly, hands pulling on the cuffs of his hoodie.

His gaze doesn’t waiver, and Taiga doesn’t flinch.

“Thank you. For being honest.”

*

“I’m sorry,” Taiga says, and Tatsuya wants to say, why are you apologizing?

He doesn’t, though, because he can tell Taiga means it. Even though it’s Tatsuya who (as always) should be the sorry one, when it’s because of things Taiga can’t help and Tatsuya absolutely can, and he has to stop himself from grinding his teeth together at the stoplight.

He flicks down the turn signal, focuses his gaze on the road, checks the blind spot.

“Don’t martyr yourself,” Taiga says, and he winces when he says that, as if he’d been practicing those words in a mirror and they still come out the wrong way.

“I’m not martyring myself,” Tatsuya says, knuckles tightening on the wheel, and he knows it’s a lie before the words even hit his lips.

Taiga slams the door when he gets out. Tatsuya drives back to his apartment alone.

* * *

 

11\. things you said with too many miles between us + things you said on the phone at 4 am + things you said in the backyard at night + things you always meant to say but never got the chance + things you said on new year’s eve (sheith) for zekkenflash

“I miss you,” Shiro had said the last time they’d spoken before everything.

He’d already been past Saturn, the distance between them heightened by the transmission time of their voices, dead air and near-silent static until the next line came through on the frequency. His voice had been soft, the way it had gotten when they were together, bodies pressed against each other on a tiny dorm bed next to the wall, when there had been no need but it had felt so private, so intimate, anyway.

Keith wanted to ask him why he left, wants to tell him to promise to never leave again once he comes back. It’s so stupid; it goes against everything that makes Shiro himself and everything that makes Keith adore him so much.

“I miss you, too,” Keith had said instead.

Outside, an owl hooted somewhere. The sky was beginning to turn orange at the edges as if it was burning up in the atmosphere.

*

Sometimes it feels like a dream, the whole Voltron thing, an extended trip on cough syrup Keith had taken and he’ll wake up alone in the desert with no hope of seeing Shiro again. And then he turns around and there’s Shiro, right behind him, smiling, and it all feels real and rolls over him in a sandstorm.

Tonight it’s just the two of them, a new year about to dawn, in Shiro’s parents’ backyard. There are inches between their pinkies and then there aren’t; Shiro hooks his around Keith’s as they look up at the stars, staring until the dull ones pop out against the deep blue sky.

“Keith,” Shiro says.

“Hmm?” says Keith.

He’s slightly buzzed on the bit of champagne they’d had earlier, leaning in farther than he should toward Shiro.

“I never wanted to leave you.”

And Keith knows, instantaneously, exactly what he means.

“Just don’t do it again,” Keith murmurs.

Shiro pulls him closer, leans on his shoulder. The weight of him is familiar, easy, and Keith wants him to never let go.


End file.
